


will you love me, if you loved me

by orphan_account



Category: Political RPF, Political RPF - US 21st c., Real Person Fiction
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-25 00:32:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10752993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Five ways they could've met, and one way they didn't.





	1. Chapter 1

They meet at a friend’s house party. It’s Labor Day weekend, they’ve got Monday to nurse their hangovers and three nights to give cause to those future hangovers.

She’s dressed casually – pants, loose cardigan, low-cut shirt – yeah, she’s at a party but she’s not going to dress down so dramatically. She’s not planning on getting that much drunk, at least. She heads to the kitchen, through the crowds of people, trying to see if she can spot any of the people who’d brought her here.

And that’s when she bumps into him. His drink sloshes dangerously and she narrowly avoids getting it all over herself, but she wipes her clothes anyway.

“Oh, shit,” he says. He takes a sip from his drink and sets it aside, looking around and grabbing a napkin to hand to her. Most of the drink spilled to the side, toward the wall, but there’s a stain on his jacket that likely is beer – or, well, hopefully is. “Did I get any on you?”

“No, no, you’re good,” she says and aimlessly dabs the napkin at random spots. “I should’ve seen where I was going. Sorry.”

“No worries.” He looks her over carefully and leans back a little. “Uh, no offence meant, but you don’t look like you’re dressed for a party. You look more like you’re dressed for, I don’t know, a night out at the library.”

“And you look like you spent the last half hour behind the house smoking weed so, I’m not sure you have any right to criticize me on my appearance,” she replies smoothly.

To his credit, he laughs. “Damn,” he says, “I should’ve figured you’d have a sharp wit based on your clothes.”

“So, you _weren’t_ smoking weed?” she asks, crossing her arms. “Because it sure smells like you were.”

“Look who’s making generalizations now,” he hums, then shakes his head. “Ah, who am I kidding – that’s exactly what I was doing.”

She covers her mouth as she chuckles and smirks lightly. “I like my men honest.”

“Can this honest man get your name?”

“If you give yours first, that is.”

His smile turns into a grin and he holds out his hand. “Bill Clinton.”

“Hillary Rodham.” She takes his hand and gives it a firm shake.

“Well, Hillary,” Bill says, “what’s your poison for tonight?”

She thinks about it for a minute, then says, “Why don’t you surprise me, Bill?”

“Oh, I’m awfully good at surprises,” he gives her a cheeky wink and she can’t help but laugh. He’s ridiculous, but also ridiculously charming, and she can’t help but give him a chance.

They end up standing in the stairwell, more secluded than before, though the party still thrives without them and the echoes leak into their surroundings. She sips lightly from her cup filled with cheap beer and he spends more time smiling and listening to her than anything else.

“So, I gotta ask,” he says, “where are you going to school? I mean, you don’t look like an undergrad, but then again, we just had a whole conversation about not judging people by their appearance.”

She laughs and takes another drink from her cup. “Well, you’re absolutely right about that,” she says. “I’m at Yale Law right now.”

Bill nearly spits out his drink. “Oh, shit,” he says, wiping his hand with the back of his mouth. “This might not work out then – I’m at Harvard.”

“Really?” Hillary hums. “I was actually considering Harvard – that is, until they revealed their institutionalized sexism and put me off the entire idea of going there.” She raises a brow when she sees him biting back laughter. “What’s so funny?”

“So, you’re a feminist, huh?” he asks. He leans against the wall and gives her a curious look.

She nods firmly, a hand on her hip. “Of course,” she says. “Is there something wrong with that?”

“Not at all,” he says, and there’s something in the way he says it that makes her think he’s being genuine. “No, I think it’s pretty incredible, actually.”

The conversation flows easily, from heavy concepts like politics and the fate of the Republican party to lighter thoughts like where the best takeout in Boston was from. At one point, she makes a joke and he laughs so hard he nearly drops his empty cup and she laughs too. He puts a hand on her arm and they exchange a look, a brief look, and then he drops the cup and he’s cupping her face and they’re kissing.

He kisses like a typical college student – too much tongue, not enough finesse – but his hand is gentle in her hair and he makes her laugh so she kisses back. They pull apart, briefly, and she can’t help but let out a chuckle.

“Smooth move, Clinton,” she says, softly.

“You’re not too bad yourself, Rodham,” he says. His lips touch the corner of her mouth and move down the side of her jaw until he reaches her ear. “Want to move this upstairs?”

“You know whose house this is?”

“No,” he says, “but I assume they have bedrooms upstairs.”

She laughs again and shakes her head, pressing a kiss to his neck. “You’re ridiculous,” she hums softly.

“You should see me in bed.”

They laugh again, and then they’re kissing again. He has her back pressed against the wall, his hands squeezing her hips while she pulls him closer and cards her hands through his hair. It’s a little long at the ends and her fingers get caught in the tangles and she feels him start to smile.

His hand slides under her shirt and traces the outline of her ribs until he reaches her bra. His fingers brush over the fabric and brush over one of her nipples, moving back to gently tease it. She leans her head back and breathes.

He smirks, just a little, and starts to suck on the side of her neck, teeth grazing against her skin, and she knows he’s going to leave a bruise there. His hand switches breasts and her legs spread just a bit farther as her grip on his hair tightens. He’s not perfect, but he’s good, and she’s a little tipsy, so he might as well be perfect.

She’s just about to suggest that they do in fact move to whatever bedroom might be free upstairs when, of course, she hears her name echo into the stairwell. “Hill!” someone shouts. “Hey, Hill, where are you?”

Bill lifts his head and Hillary sighs as she straightens out her shirt and fixes her cardigan. “Sounds like I gotta go,” she sighs. She leans up and kisses his cheek. “It was nice meeting you, Bill.”

He tilts his head until he’s kissing her lips, thumb brushing her cheek, and he pulls away slowly. “The pleasure was all mine, Hillary.”

She smiles at him, then brushes past him and heads to the door. Her hand is on the knob when he calls out her name again and she turns her head around. “Yes?”

He looks a little sheepish all of a sudden, rubbing the back of his head and shoving a hand into his pocket. “Think we can meet up again sometime?”

“You know my name,” she says. “Why don’t you come find me?”

His laughter echoes in her ears long after she’s closed the door, and she’s smiling for ages after. Yeah, she’s really looking forward to meeting this Bill Clinton again – whoever he might be.


	2. Chapter 2

They meet at a club. Not just any club – a jazz club. You don’t find many of those in Houston, not really, but that’s where her date was supposed to meet her and so there she went. She gets there a couple of minutes early and spends some time in the restroom, reapplying her makeup and getting her hair in order – fuck the Southern heat, she’d rather face the icy chill of winters in Yale any day – before taking a seat at the bar.

She orders her drink from the bartender, and then another, and then another, and then it finally occurs to her that maybe she’s being stood up. “Well, shit,” she mumbles under her breath, and then downs her drink in one go.

The bartender watches her and raises a brow. “Rough night?” he asks.

“I think my date just stood me up,” she says. It’s not until she says it out loud that the full force of it hits her. She bites back a laugh.

“Seriously?” the bartender gives her a sympathetic look. He refills her glass. “Take that on the house. Gorgeous woman like you shouldn’t have to pay for her own drinks.”

At that, she does laugh, shaking her head and brushing the strands of hair away from her face. She takes a sip and smiles lightly. “Thanks,” she says, “but I can pay for my own drinks, thank you very much.”

He shrugs. “Yes, but why pay when you don’t have to?”

“Equality?”

“You got me there,” he raises his hands with a chuckle, and she shakes her head again. She leans forward and rests her head on the back of her hand, watching him with interest. He’s not unattractive, as far as bartenders go, but there’s something about him that makes her want to keep taking to him.

Her fingers trace the rim of her glass and she asks, “So, is this how you flirt with other women? By giving them free drinks?”

“Well, women aren’t really attracted to me when I’m a bartender,” he admits. “They’re more attracted when I’m up there playing the sax.”

“The sax?” she repeats, and she’s not sure if her expression fully conveys her incredulity. She leans back a little and looks him over. “Yeah, I think I can see that.” She leans forward again. “You play here?”

He chuckles softly, smile widening by a fraction. “Yeah, I play here,” he says. “That’s why I work here too – it’s easier to get the gig. Houston isn’t exactly a bustling hub of musical activity, but it’s cheaper than most places and close to home.”

“Close to home, huh?” she nods slowly. “Not for me, though. I’m actually down here just for the summer.”

“Yeah, you don’t sound like a southern girl.” He rests his arms on the table and stretches out his back a little. “Where are you from, then, and why are you down here in the summer – of all the seasons?”

“It’s not by choice,” she says. “No, I’m down here to help with George McGovern’s campaign, actually, here in Texas.”

“McGovern, huh?” he scratches his chin. “Well, he’s no Bobby Kennedy.”

Her brows go up and she swallows down her drink quickly. “That’s exactly what I’ve been thinking,” she says, and grins when he laughs.

They talk for a little bit longer, a little bit about politics, a little bit about music, until her eyes drift toward her watch and she notices the time. “Shit,” she groans. Her drink’s more than watered down now but she drains it anyway. “I have an early day tomorrow – it’s my turn on the phonebanks.”

“Good luck with that,” he says. She sees him pause a moment, then clear his throat. “Hey, uh, do you think you’ll be free tomorrow?”

She pretends to consider it for a moment, just to watch him squirm a little. “Yeah, I think so,” she finally concedes, after a moment. “Why?”

“I’m performing tomorrow,” he says. “And, well, I’d like it if you could come by and watch me perform, and we can chat for a bit in my dressing room after – if you want, of course.”

She purses her lips. “I don’t know,” she says slowly, giving an exaggerated shrug, “I’m not a huge fan of jazz music.” His face falls a fraction and she rolls her eyes, playfully hitting his arm. “Of course I’ll be here. I can’t wait to see the music by the great…” she trails off once she realizes that not once during their whole conversation had they exchanged names.

The corner of his lips quirk. “Bill,” he says. “Bill Clinton.”

“Bill Clinton,” she repeats. “I’m Hillary Rodham.”

“Beautiful name for a beautiful woman,” Bill says, wagging his brow, and Hillary has to cover her mouth from laughing too hard. She settles her tab, leaving a sizable tip, and waves as she heads out the door and into the Houston night.

She comes back the next day, after hours upon hours of making calls, getting hung up on, and drinking ridiculous amounts of coffee. She doesn’t say where she’s going – not that anyone’s really asking, since they all think she’s going home to rest and she doesn’t bother correcting them.

Bill’s already started playing by the time she gets there and she’s a little concerned she might’ve missed the entire thing, but she takes her seat by the bar and he looks over and they make eye contact and – and he actually winks at her.

She laughs into her glass and shakes her head, letting the music flow over her.

Bill finishes his set and Hillary finishes her drink and they make their way backstage, into a small and unrefined dressing room. It’s little more than a broom closet, but his smile lights up the space and she can’t help but smile back.

“What did you think?” he asks, a slight nervous edge to his tone.

“You were great,” she assures him. “You could, I don’t know, be the next Frank Sinatra or something.”

“Frank Sinatra?”

She gives a sheepish shrug. “I don’t know anything about jazz,” she admits with a laugh. “Ask me anything about politics and I can write a whole essay in a minute but jazz – well, I don’t know the first thing about jazz.”

“Really?” he raises a brow. “You seemed to know a lot about jazz last night.”

“I was more than a little tipsy then,” she counters. “Come on, you didn’t know much about politics last night.”

“That’s because I was drunk,” he says. He finishes packing up his sax and starts to pull on his coat. He looks at her and smiles. “I can hold a conversation about politics.”

She crosses her arms and smiles. “Oh yeah? Do you want to prove it?”

“I do,” he says. He holds out his arm. “Dinner?”

“Starving.”


	3. Chapter 3

They meet in the middle of the open road. She has – well, _had_ – a nice little sedan that had managed to get her through at least _seven_ states only to stop in fucking _Arkansas_ , of all fucking places, on what was probably the hottest day pf the entire summer.

She’s long since abandoned her nice coats and blouses for low-cut tank tops and short jeans that barely cover her thighs. No wonder people dress like this down here. Otherwise, they’d all but melt out of their skin.

Her car is pulled over to the side of the road and the smoke has just cleared from under her hood when a car stops beside her. It’s a long and open road and she’s honestly shocked that someone was even driving, let alone stopped to see what was going on.

The windows are already pulled down and he sticks his head out. “Car trouble?” he asks.

She scoffs a little. “That obvious?”

“Thought I’d ask anyway,” he says, sounding a little sheepish. “Do you, uh, need some help? There’s a town a couple of miles away and they’ve got a shop out there.”

She looks him over for a bit. He’s young, maybe a little older than her but not enough that she should be concerned, and there’s a certain freshness to his face that makes it feel like he’s genuinely concerned for her. She’s still not altogether convinced, but then he adds, “Town’s about three miles away,” and she’s sold.

She grabs her purse and keys from her car and gets into his, and after a couple of minutes, they’re finally on their way. She sticks her arm out the window and lets out a relieved sigh. “Thank you so much,” she says. “I don’t think I would’ve had it in me to walk all the way to the next town over. Barely had enough energy left in me to drive there.”

He laughs and shakes his head. “It’s fine,” he assures her. “Glad I could be of service.” He takes a hand off the wheel and extends it. “Bill Clinton.”

“Hillary Rodham.” She gives it a firm shake and leans the seat back a little, letting the subtle breeze air out her face and chest.

“So, Hillary,” Bill says, eyes back on the road, “what brings you all the way out here?”

“Road trip,” Hillary explains. “I’ve got to make it all the way to Oakland by the end of the week, so I decided to drive down from Yale, to a couple of different states to visit some friends, and make a whole trip out of it.”

“Wait,” he says, brow furrowed. “Did you say Yale?”

“Yeah.” She turns her head and looks over at him. “What about it?”

He shakes his head and lets out a chuckle. “This can’t have been a coincidence,” he says, “because – and I’m being completely honest here, you can check my wallet for my ID – I’m at Yale.”

She looks at him for a couple of seconds. “Well, shit,” she says, plainly, and they both burst into laughter. She shakes her head and stretches out her back, still looking him over. “That’s some coincidence. What’re you doing here?”

“Same as you – visiting friends.” His answer is a little vague, a little dismissive, but he clears his throat and asks, “So, what’s waiting in Oakland?”

She gets into the details of her future job at Treuhaft, Walker and Burnstein and he in turn tells her all about working on the campaign for McGovern down in Texas. It turns out that they actually have a lot in common – interest in law, interest in politics, concern for the future, a desire to be part of that future.

It’s almost a shame when they’re finally pulling up to the auto shop.

Hillary clears her throat and starts grabbing her things. “Well, it was very nice meeting you, Bill,” she smiles. “Maybe I’ll see you at Yale sometime next semester.”

“Yeah,” Bill nods. “I, uh, would like to see you too.”

She pauses a second, then leans over and kisses his cheek, before hopping out and heading inside the shop. Her lips burn for a couple of moments afterward and even with the unideal circumstances, she can’t help but smile.

The shocking thing is that, hours later, when she gets out of the mechanic's and sees that his car is still parked outside there. She walks over to the open window by the passenger's seat and sticks her head inside. “Did you even leave?”

“I did,” Bill insists. His cheeks flush a little and she's pretty sure it's not because of the heat - the sun's gone down and a cool wind is starting to blow all around them. He clears his throat. “I was just, well - I wanted to make sure everything was good with you. I was a little concerned, is all.”

“That's very sweet of you,” Hillary hums.

“I thought so too,” he chuckles. He gestures his head over to the entrance of the shop. “So, do you know how long it'll take?”

“They said at least until tomorrow afternoon,” she says with a slight sigh.

“I see,” he nods slowly and she can see him swallow a little before asking, “Do you have a place to stay?”

She scratches the side of her chin, thinking about it for a moment. “Do you have a place in mind?”

“I might.” The smile he throws her is tinted with mischief and she can't help but laugh at it. “You want to come along and check it out?”

She opens the door and climbs back inside.

The door to the hotel room has barely closed when they're throwing themselves at each other. He's pressing her against the wall, kissing her fingers as she starts to undo the buttons on his shirt and his hands pull down her shorts with ease.

Bill tastes of salt and sweat and Hillary doesn't really mind it.

“You kiss real well,” she says, as he trails down the side of her jaw and back up to her lips again.

“High praise, coming from you,” he says, chuckle rumbling in his chest, and she can feel the vibrations against hers.

He keeps her pressed against the wall, slowly bending down and kissing the side of her thigh, before pulling off her panties and pressing his face into her cunt.

Hillary bites her lower hip and leans her head back. Now this is something he's _really_ good at. Lean fingers rub around her and his tongue flicks at her clit, barest hint of teeth grazing her skin. He slides his fingers out slowly, carefully, dragging them along by the tips and she spreads her legs as wide as she can.

"Oh, fuck, you're good," she says, voice coming out in a slight pant.

He lifts his head up and gives her the cheesiest grin, even with her cum down his chin. "You think so?" he asks. His fingers move faster and her eyes roll backwards, hands tightly gripping his hair.

If I wasn't a little bit in love before, she thinks, and lets out a soft moan as she comes.


	4. Chapter 4

They meet at a party. Well, outside a party, really. And it’s less of a party and more of a fundraising gala, if she’s going to get into specifics. Which, given her chosen profession, is probably not a bad idea.

She’s standing under the canopy and out of the rain, shoving her recorder into her purse and keeping a lookout for some taxi or something. She didn’t even _want_ to be here – sure, she’s on the congressional beat, but tonight was supposed to be her night off. Except Betsy decided to get herself a date down in New York and she really needed someone to all but tackle her source and get him to go on the record before her deadline tomorrow morning.

And, well, Betsy is a good friend so of course, she’d do whatever she could to help her. Like, for example, standing out in the rain and watch as no cabs passed her by.

“Bad night to be waiting for a cab,” someone says from behind her.

She turns around, pulling her purse closer to her chest, before relaxing a little when she sees it’s not a stranger but someone from the party. Someone _important_ from the party, actually. She manages a polite smile. “Governor Clinton, nice to see you.”

“Nice to see you too, Miss…” he trails off with a snap of his fingers.

“Rodham,” she finishes. She holds out her hand. “Hillary Rodham.”

“Hillary Rodham,” Clinton repeats, with a slight air of recognition. He gives her hand a firm shake. “You’re with the Post, right?”

“That’s correct,” she says. “Though, I'm actually off-duty tonight. Not here a reporter, just a private citizen.”

“Really?” he raises a brow. “Because, I was pretty certain that I saw you in there heckling some poor aide with a recorder in your hands.”

She gives a sheepish look. “Okay, fine, I was a reporter back then, but that was only as a favor to a friend. Her deadline is tomorrow.”

“Will she be putting your name in the byline?”

Hillary rolls her eyes with a chuckle. “You know, people told me you had a great sense of humor.”

“Did they tell you I was also a great sax player?” Clinton asks.

“No, that I found out from your interview with Vanity Fair.” She smirks a little when he laughs, leaning back and crossing her arms. “That was a very good interview, if I might say.”

“You should probably be praising the reporter more than me,” he admits, “but I appreciate it. Thank you.”

She nods slowly. Her hands are itching to grab a pen or to pull out her recorder again but she did just say she wasn't working right now. Then again, a reporter never stops being a reporter, so... She clears her throat. “You know, the timing of that interview seems a little bit... curious, don't you think?”

He gives her a curious look. “How so?”

“Well,” she says, slowly, “you've been touring your state, been making lots of trips up here to Capitol Hill, been more and more vocal and open to reporters...”

“Really?” he hums, almost sarcastically. “I hadn't noticed.” He crosses his arms as well. “And what's the point you're trying to make, Mrs. Rodham?”

“Miss,” Hillary corrects. She shrugs casually. “I don't know, Governor. Like I said, I'm not really a reporter tonight.”

The smile he gives her is mischievous and a little devilish, and it gives him a very youthful glow.  _Damn_ , she thinks,  _Betsy was not joking when she said he was cuter in person._

“Well, well,” he says. “If this is what you're like as a regular old citizen, I'd love to see what you're like as a reporter.”

“There's only one way to find out.” She's about to reach into her purse to pull out her card but then she hears the distinct buzz of a beeper.

Clinton shoves his hand into his pocket and frowns down at the message. “Aw, shit,” he grumbles, clicking his tongue. “Driver’s stuck in traffic – the motorcade’s heading out right about now.”

“That explains a lot,” Hillary says, not without a note of exasperation.

They stand out there together and talk for a little while longer, about policy and politics, about how the weather in Arkansas is actually nicer than it is in DC (which she doesn’t believe), how the Post is more prestigious than the Times (which he doesn’t believe). Conversation flows easily between then, easier than she’d thought, and it’s only when she glances down at her watch that she realizes how much time has passed.

She looks back out on the street. The rain’s still coming down like buckets and there’s no way she’ll be able to get to the office without getting soaked to her bone. “I think we should move this conversation inside. No point in standing out here until traffic clears up.”

“That sounds like a plan,” he hums. He scratches his chin thoughtfully, then says, “Hey, this has all been off the record, right?”

She raises her hands and gives a little wave. “No recorder.”

“I see… And, well, nothing we’ve said or done – or will say or do – will find its way into some story, right?”

“What are you trying to say, Governor?” She thinks she has an idea, but she’d rather hear him say it than insinuate.

“Nothing,” he says. “Just that you are a very beautiful woman, we’re both stuck here without a way to leave, there’s an open bar inside, and,” he pauses a moment. “You are single, right?”

Hillary can’t help it, she has to laugh. She watches his face turn pink and she shakes her head. “Are you hitting on me, Governor?” she asks. “Have you forgotten that this is the first time we’ve met?”

“No, no, I’m well aware of that,” Clinton says. He rubs the back of his head and gives her a hapless look. “But, well, earlier, when you were introducing yourself, I did actually recognize you. I’ve read my fair share of your articles in the Post, and, well…” he looks away, face redder than before.

She bites the inside of her cheek to keep herself from laughing, but it doesn’t stop the smirk from spreading across her face. “So,” she says, “you’ve developed a crush on me, have you?”

He lets out a little chuckle. “Well, can you blame me?” he shrugs. “You’re a gorgeous and intelligent woman with a sharp tongue and clever wit. Any man would be infatuated.”

“You know, this is probably the strangest way I’ve been asked out – and I’ve met my fair share of lovelorn admirers.”

“I am pretty out of practice.” They chuckle together and he clears his throat. “So, how’s about we go back inside, get some drinks, and see where things go?”

Hillary’s tempted by the offer, she really is, but the rain seems to be letting up and she lets out a slow sigh. “Well, Governor, I’m sorry but I do have some work I need to get done by tomorrow, so…” She looks out to the street and, almost as if on cue, a couple of cars speed past and she spots a taxi in the distance.

“Oh,” Clinton says. It’s clear he’s trying not to look too disappointed, but the smile he gives her is a little strained. “I understand. Good luck on your article, Miss Rodham.”

The cab is getting closer, but she doesn’t head out of the canopy yet. Instead, she does reach into her purse and pulls out her business card. She hesitates a moment, then grabs a pen as well and scribbles down her personal number on the back.

“Call me,” she says, smile a little kind and more than a little flirtatious. “We can set something up – off the record, of course.”

His smile grows, as much as he tries not to look too pleased at this turn of events. “Of course.”

“Have a good night, Governor,” Hillary says. She runs down to the sidewalk and waves her hands frantically and, by a stroke of luck, the taxi does stop in front of her. Clinton’s waving at her as she pulls away and she waves back.

 _There’s no fucking way Betsy will believe this_ , she thinks, and lets out a laugh.


	5. Chapter 5

They meet in an elevator. It’s not the first time they meet, but it is the first time they meet without anyone else around them.

She’s the one to get into the elevator first – only after she assures Huma she’ll review the debate footage first thing in the morning, and only after she promises her security detail that she’ll see them on the roof.

“Come on, guys,” she sighs, “don’t I deserve at least an elevator ride alone? It’s not anyone else is going to be awake this time of night.”

“The elevator might stop,” one of them says, and fuck her, she can’t remember what his name is. He pauses a second. “But security is heightened because, well… because of the Republican nominee…

She can’t help it, she lets out a groan. “Don’t fucking remind me.”

The agent clears his throat. “I think it’ll be fine, ma’am, at least for a ride up the elevator. See you on the roof.”

“Thank you.” She gives them a grateful smile and gets into the elevator, finally, _blessedly_ alone. She’s still in her pantsuit from the debate but it’s actually pretty comfortable to sleep in. It’s the damn heels she could do without – god, why did the focus group say they liked heels? Why couldn’t they have said they preferred sneakers?

And then the elevator stops and there he is.

There’s a second where she considers slamming the ‘door close’ button and hoping for the best but it’s too late, he’s entering, and then it’s just the two of them. Alone. In an elevator. Heading to the top floor.

Fucking hell.

There’s a long moment of silence, and then she says, “So, what’re you doing here?”

He shrugs. “Same as you, probably – escaping my secret service detail to play hooky on the roof.”

“You think I’m escaping my detail?” she scoffs. “My detail is letting me go on the roof – unlike yours, apparently.”

“Really?” His brow furrows. “Huh, I guess your detail is nicer than mine. They wouldn’t have even let me ride the elevator alone.”

“Maybe my detail is nicer because they want to suck up to the first female nominee of a major party.”

He raises a brow and she’s pretty sure she sees the corner of his mouth quirk as he crosses his arms. “God, you really _love_ bringing that up, huh?”

“Just as much as you _love_ bringing up your party’s economic plan,” she retorts easily. Her hands rest on her hips and she gives him a smug look. “Come on, now, everyone knows ‘trickle-down economics’ doesn’t do shit.”

“That kind of language would surely go over well with your base, Rodham.”

“ _Senator_ Rodham,” Hillary snaps. “The people of New York didn’t elect me into office just so smug assholes like you could ignore my title, Governor Clinton.”

“My apologies, Senator,” Clinton says, though it sure as hell doesn’t sound like an apology. “I guess the good people of New York prefer their representatives to look and sound like them.”

“Is that a subtle dig at my constituency? Because there is a lot I can say about the hicks that live in your state, Governor.”

Clinton shakes his head. “What do you think those so-called ‘hicks’ would do if they heard you call them that?”

“What does it matter?” Hillary asks. “it’s not like the press would believe you if you tried to tell them – no cameras in the elevator, no witnesses here except for us.”

There’s a subtle shift in his expression as he takes this information in and he scratches his chin, giving her a strange expression. “So, what you’re saying is,” he says, slowly, “whatever happens in the elevator stays in the elevator?”

She shrugs. “Yes, I guess that’s what I’m saying.”

“I see.” They’ve arrived at the top floor, just a stairwell away from the roof, and the doors are about to open. Except, instead of getting out, he hits the ‘door close’ button. He’s still looking at her and there’s something in his eyes – a small glint, a subtle look, she’s not sure. “Then, might I suggest something, Senator?”

Her eyes narrow but she doesn’t try to escape, not yet. Something about the way he’s looking at her makes her want to hear him out. “What do you suggest, Governor?”

“I think,” he says, clearing his throat, “that we should take this opportunity to resolve whatever sexual tension we have between us so we can start focusing less on how badly we want to fuck each other’s brains out and more on our policy and political differences.” He waits a moment, gauging her reaction, before asking, “Would you agree?”

She’s not sure how long the gap is between her saying, “Yes,” and him pressing her up against the wall, mouth on hers while he starts to undo his buckle. She grabs the back of his head and tugs lightly at his hair, fumbling with the zipper of her pants.

Fucking pantsuits. Sure, they’re a great look, but they’re awful when you want to fuck someone in an elevator before the Secret Service comes in and checks on you. She manages to get them off, though, then moves to grip his dick through his underwear. It’s already wet and leaking and she runs her fingers up and down his shaft as slowly as possible.

Clinton groans, lips on the side of her neck as he whispers, “You don’t know how long I’ve been wanting to fuck you.”

“Unless you got a condom in those pants, then the only thing you’ll be fucking is my hand,” Hillary retorts. She reaches into his pocket and finds his wallet, using both hands to open it and pull a singular condom out.

“Fuck,” she says. “I can’t believe you actually had one of these.”

“Always be prepared, as the Boy Scouts taught me,” he hums, and fuck if he doesn’t look a little cute when he says it.

She’s the one to put the condom on him, movements faltering a couple of times when he pulls down her underwear and starts opening her up. His fingers are swift and deft, brushing against her clit as they move in and out. Fingertips slide around her cunt like some fucking teases and she thinks her eyes are going to roll into the back of her head.

There’s not much talking between them, not when they’re too busy kissing. Her hands are wrapped around his back and her feet are just barely lifted off the ground when he grabs her waist and starts fucking her. He’s actually pretty fucking good at it, soft kisses against her jaw while he rolls his hips and starts going faster, and she’s pretty sure her nails scratch the back of his neck when he finally hits her g-spot.

All in all, she thinks, just before she comes, he’s much better at fucking than he is at debating.

Later – _much_ later – Huma will point to a mark on Hillary’s neck, barely hidden by her shirt, and ask, “What happened there?”

“It’s a funny story,” Hillary will reply, and then abruptly change the subject, because she’s got an election to win, dammit, and she can’t let Clinton stop her.

Even if she is definitely going to fuck him after the next debate.


	6. Chapter 6

They meet in the library. At least, that’s where he sees her.

She’s sitting at a table by herself, notebook open before her with a couple of books around her. Her hair is tied back in a loose bun with loose strands sticking out and on her forehead.

He thinks she looks familiar. He thinks she looks beautiful. He doesn’t go up to her, though.

He sits a couple of tables away, nose pressed into a book, but he looks up every so often to see her mumbling under her breath or scribbling something down. She’s so determined. He wonders what she’s studying.

He still doesn’t go up to her, though.

Her pencil falls down and it rolls until its equidistant between the two of them. He could get up and give it to her. He could get up and hand it to her and strike up a conversation with this vaguely familiar and clearly beautiful woman.

She gets up and grabs the pencil. He goes back to reading.

When he looks up, she is gone.

He doesn’t see her again, not at the library, not in any of his classes, nowhere, but he doesn’t forget about her. He should, by all rights, but there was something about her and he should’ve – he really should’ve just worked up the nerve and spoken to her.

It’s his biggest regret.

He doesn't even know her name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. 
> 
> At this time, personally, I don't have any plans for making any of these full fics but if you'd like to, just let me know.


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